“Sorry. I’ll get the hang of it.” He wore a black leather jacket, matching pants, and a pair of goggles. He’d also attired her in goggles, although she felt conspicuous as they motored up and down Fifth Avenue, coughing a black trail of smoke. She would have much preferred a walk through Central Park’s winding trails.
Then again, could Lizzie or Del claim they’d ridden in an authentic motorcar, imported straight from France? Indeed, she could easily become accustomed to the gaping stares, the expressions of envy.
Too bad Esme had snuck away—and Jinx had a feeling where she’d gone, although she hadn’t exactly minded when Foster extended the offer to her to accompany him on an after- dinner ride in Esme’s place.
They splashed through a mud puddle, probably dirtying the beautiful yellow wheel spokes, the punched red tin on the front of the car. With its gold handles and polished mahogany, she couldn’t wait to ride it down Oceanside Avenue in Newport this summer.
“You will bring it to Seacrest, won’t you?”
“Of course. Esme and I will most likely be scouting for a summer cottage of our own. And I heard rumor of Alva Vanderbilt hosting a motorcross race on the grounds of Belcourt. I wouldn’t miss it.” Foster turned at the end of the park.
A motorcross race. How she longed to be the one wearing a sheik Parisian dress, under an umbrella—although, what did one wear to a motorized event?—cheering on Foster as he bested a Vanderbilt in a race.
But, no. Esme would be among the ladies, cheering her husband. Jinx tried not to think about how he’d come to fetch her sister, to show her his newest acquisition. How, in fact, he would spend his evenings with Esme, hold her in his arms at night.
Jinx pressed a hand to her stomach, drew in a breath of springtime fragrance to scour away the burn.
She could probably console herself, however wickedly, that Foster had brightened when she covered for her sister and told him Esme wasn’t emerging from her room.
Surely her sister would be more affectionate after she and Foster married.
They motored past the chateaus that sprawled over entire city blocks, past electric lamps glowing into the night. Foster’s frame, close to her on the seat, warmed her, his leather outfit creaking as he steered.
“I saw her in France, and I couldn’t wait until she arrived. Are you cold? I have a blanket in the compartment under the seat.”
He glanced at her, the faintest hint of exhaust darkening his skin. He’d obviously decided to start the crank engine himself rather than ask a footman. But when he smiled, those white teeth, looking like an adventurer, pride in his eyes, she couldn’t help smiling back.
No, she wasn’t cold at all.
They pulled up to the house and he stepped down from the car. She braced her hands on his shoulders and he lifted her down, his hands on her waist.
He reached for her goggles. “Let me help you with these.”
She closed her eyes, letting him remove them. When she opened them, he had removed his own and now stared at her, something tender in his eyes. “Thank you for going motoring with me. I really wanted to show…” His mouth tugged up. “Well, you, actually. Esme has no interest, I fear, in motorcars.”
She wanted to say something—anything—in defense of her sister, but words abandoned her. Especially when Foster caressed her cheek with his gloved hand. “I am thankful we will be family.” His voice softened, emotion in it.
Her throat tightened but she managed a nod.
Too soon, he stepped back. She wanted to lean into his touch, perhaps clasp it to herself, but what if others saw her movements?
What if they could read her heart?
“Give my regards to Esme. Perhaps I will stop back later tonight—your father has invited me for brandy.”
“Thank you again,” she said as he climbed back into his contraption.
The motorcar grumbled as it pulled away.
I am thankful we will be family.
She stood watching him go, the black exhaust making her step behind the columns that bordered their entrance.
And there, across the avenue, at the entrance of the park, just inside the rim of lamplight…no, it couldn’t be.
Esme stood in the arms of a man. Kissing him. Sure, they were hidden by the shadow of an empress tress in bloom, if one peered straight out the window, but from Jinx’s position…
Oliver.
She stilled, her grip tight on her reticule.
Of course. No wonder her sister didn’t want to marry Foster Worth. She’d already given herself away—her heart at least, if not her body—to Oliver Stewart. The untidy footboy who had been chasing Esme and her money since the day his father, their butler, brought him into the house to live with them. Poor, motherless child, they allowed him too much freedom in the Price halls, and now the rogue had stolen Esme’s honor.
Jinx couldn’t watch.
She turned, shaking, and barely heard the footman’s greeting as she entered the hallway. She unwrapped her coat, dropped it into the hands of the maid, and then stood in the marble hallway, listening to the ticking of the massive clock’s echo against her heartbeat.
Someone had to do something.
Her movements felt natural, even heroic, as she knocked on her father’s study.
The door creaked open, and Jinx stood there, letting the light from the hallway flow past her where her father sat at his desk. Her shadow cast a larger gloom upon the floor, and for a moment she shrank back from her betrayal.
But Esme didn’t deserve her birthright, her millions.
Jinx did. Moreover, she would rescue them all.
And finally, her father would love her best.
August looked up from his desk. A soft glow of his lamp illuminated an edition of Pulitzer’s New York World. “Jinx? I’m in the middle of something.”
Jinx took a breath. This might even turn out for Esme’s good. She’d be rescued from a penniless fate—shipped off to Europe, perhaps, but eventually married to someone who would allow her to spout her suffragette biases. Maybe even let her write those dime novels. Preferably from some chilly castle in northern Germany.
“Esme’s betrayed us.”
He stared at her. “What are you talking about?”
“She—she’s run off with someone.”
He stood up, came around the desk. “I don’t understand. Esme’s in her room. She wasn’t feeling well.”
“She snuck out.”
He seemed nonplussed by this information. Oh, why did he love Esme so? Didn’t he see that she couldn’t carry on the Price legacy? “Where to?”
She took a deep breath as her father stared at her. “I think she went to see Oliver.”
August frowned at her. “Oliver? Who is—”
“Father, you cannot be serious. Tall, dark hair, used to run through our home smelling of the stables?”
August shook his head.
“He’s your butler’s son.”
“Yes, Ollie. Of course. I recommended him for a job with Bryant, the photographer. Why would Esme want to see Oliver?”
“Father, don’t tell me you didn’t know. Oliver has been in love with her for years. And I think—I think she’s run away with him.”
He stared at her so long it seemed that she might have to repeat herself. Then, “Stewart!” He looked at Jinx, and for the first time in her life, what looked like real fear entered his eyes. “Stewart!”
“Here, sir.” The butler stepped into the open doorway.
“Do you have any knowledge about a friendship—perhaps a forbidden one—between your son Oliver and my Esme?”
Something flickered in Mr. Stewart’s eyes. “Not directly, sir.”
August’s mouth closed into a tight line. “Do you know where your son Oliver lives?”
Mr. Stewart drew in a long breath. “Hell’s Kitchen, sir. On the Cherry Hill side.”
A trickle of ice went through Jinx. Certainly Esme hadn’t ventured that far from their world, for what? Love? H
ad she listened to nothing Jinx had ever told her? Love couldn’t pay for a home, servants. A life of value.
“Get my carriage. And all the footmen.”
“Immediately, sir.” The butler left them. August walked to his credenza. His hands shook as he poured whisky into a glass. He took it and threw it back.
She wanted to tell him that Esme and Oliver were right across the street, in the park, but his tone had stripped her courage.
Esme deserved discovery, certainly.
She watched his reflection in the window as he closed his eyes, shook his head. “Why would she do this?”
Jinx almost let out a laugh, but gulped it back. “You can’t possibly think she really wants to marry Foster. She hates him. She has some idea that she will marry for love—”
“Love is a distraction.”
She couldn’t agree more. Clearly, she was her father’s child.
Except, inside, her words pinched, just a little. Still, “I know. But she believes she loves Oliver.”
“Love won’t keep our family from ruin.”
His words jolted her. He poured himself another glass, lifted it to the window, as if toasting his reflection. “Did you know that my first newspaper failed?”
She stilled, not sure if he wanted an answer.
“I invested my father’s money in a paper in Buffalo. It failed and I was penniless. So I borrowed money to buy the Chronicle.”
“But Grandfather is wealthy.”
“Yes, he is, but he thought I should learn my lessons, grow up on my own. Well, I have, but the Chronicle has run into trouble.”
“What about Mother’s allowance?
“Deeded to me. And, all gone.”
Jinx’s hand tightened on the chair in front of her.
“The Chronicle has been losing money for years. We need advertisers and an injection of investments to keep it afloat until we happen upon something scandalous that will sell papers.”
Something scandalous.
“Esme must marry Foster Worth, or our family, our fortune, will not survive.”
Jinx drew in a soft breath. Now. She’d ask him now. “What if…I—”
“Sir, I believe Esme has returned.” Mr. Stewart stood in the doorway, his face drawn. He looked at the floor as August brushed past him.
Jinx rushed after him, found Esme standing in the foyer. Two footmen held Oliver by the arms. He wore a wild, unruly look that made Jinx tarry behind the oak doors.
“Sir, I can explain.”
August held up his hand. “Don’t speak, or I’ll have you arrested.” He turned to Esme. “What were you thinking?”
For her part, Esme seemed…changed. Something radiated from her, a confidence, perhaps, that had died the night of her engagement to Foster. She lifted her chin. “I was thinking that I—I am not going to marry Foster. I want to marry Oliver.”
Jinx’s heartbeat thundered in the silence.
Then her father took a deep breath, and in a voice that seemed dangerously quiet, possibly upgirded by his second shot of whiskey, “Throw him out into the street.”
“Father!”
He rounded on Oliver. “Don’t ever come back here again. If I see you, if you try to contact Esme, I’ll have you arrested. Or whatever it takes.”
Oliver’s eyes widened, then, “Esme, come with me. Right now.”
She turned, but August grabbed her arm so hard she cried out. Esme clawed at his grip, and Jinx trembled as she watched her father shake her. “Stop these games, Esme! Don’t you know you will be the wreck of us? You will marry Foster Worth. Tomorrow night or sooner, if I can manage it.”
“No!”
He pushed her toward a pair of footmen. “Take her to her room,” he thundered. “Post a man outside her door and don’t let her out until the ceremony.”
Then he turned his back to Esme. She tried to wrest free of the footmen’s grasps, as others opened the door and threw Oliver onto the dark, muddy street.
“Esme! I’ll be waiting right here for you. I’m not going anywhere. Esme!” They shut the doors, her name on his voice silenced. Then the footmen wrestled her around her waist, dragging her up to her room.
Jinx didn’t move, horror stripping her of all thought. Esme would be made to marry Foster. Tomorrow night. Or sooner.
Her father stopped as he passed her, pressing a hand to Jinx’s shoulder.
“Thank you, Jinx. Well done.”
Well done. She suddenly wanted to retch. Whirling around, she ran across the cold marble, up the stairs, and down the hall. She neared her sister’s room, heard her slamming her hands against the door, screaming. The footmen couldn’t hide their misery as they held the door shut.
She closed her ears, running past them, casting open her doors. Shut them behind her and sank to the cold floor.
Tomorrow night or sooner.
Down the hall, Esme let out a wail.
Jinx felt it to her bones.
Then she pulled Esme’s ring from her pocket, slipped it on her finger, curled into a ball, right there in front of the door, and wept.
Chapter 5
As if the heavens understood her misery, they opened and unloaded a torrent of tears upon New York. Jinx sat in her room in her bloomers, corset, and dressing gown, the rain pinging the windows, listening to the growl of thunder and wanting to flee.
How could she watch her sister marry the man she loved? And oh, how she loved Foster. She could close her eyes and lean her cheek into his touch, lose herself in his smile, his low tones, the smell of him as he held her as they waltzed.
Tonight and every day after, he’d hold Esme in his arms.
How would she ever learn to love another when she had given her heart to Foster?
Perhaps she understood Esme, after all.
Outside, lightning flashed against the gloomy pane. Thunder followed, far away over the river.
The servants readied the drawing room for the wedding—bowers of roses brought in to flank the marble fireplace, ivy and lilies hanging from the chandelier. Mother had sent out hurried invitations to a handful of close family friends, arranged a dinner for thirty to celebrate.
Unfortunately, Jinx couldn’t possibly retire to her room, given the fact that she would be the next Price to marry. Her mother had already ordered her vellum calling cards, already begun the invitations for her debut ball.
Just this morning, her trousseau arrived from Paris. Ball dresses, dinner dresses, tea dresses,
Jinx couldn’t look at it, knowing she’d be required to dance, flirt, and win the affections of a man who could never love her like Foster did.
Not that he’d professed it or—oh! She pressed her hands to her eyes.
“Ma’am, are you ready for your gown?” Amelia returned from the storage room, holding her new gown, the blue one with the rosettes along the neckline. She set the gown on the bed, began to open the muslin that protected it.
Amelia had already gathered Jinx’s hair up on her head—nothing so adorned as when she would enter society, but it would be her first appearance with her hair up, ushering in her new identity as a “bud.”
She stared at the mirror and wished she had half of Esme’s beauty. Probably she wouldn’t even make a match.
Maybe she should start looking at careers. Being a companion. Or a teacher.
“Jinx?” Her mother stood at the door, regal in a blue satin gown, her corset cinched tight, to accentuate her curves. On her head, she wore a tiara, diamonds at her ears, around her neck, a dog collar of diamonds. “Why aren’t you ready? And it’s freezing in here. Amelia, please light a fire.”
She swept into the room, stood behind her daughter. Jinx stared at their reflections. Perhaps she did have her mother’s features—at least the shape of her chin, the perfectly puckered lips. Someday she’d probably have her mother’s tragic marriage too, if she didn’t…if she…
“Mother, Esme should not marry Foster. She doesn’t love him. And, if their marriage ends in divorce, i
t will be a scandal for us all.”
“She won’t divorce Foster.”
“Are you so sure? She ran away to be with Oliver. Father had to post guards for the past two days to keep her secured in her room. What makes you believe she will keep her vows?”
She’d hit a mark. Her mother’s mouth knotted, her eyes narrowing. She squeezed her gloves in her grip. “Perhaps you are right.”
Jinx turned on the ottoman, keeping her voice schooled. “It’s not a good match, Mother.”
Her mother met her eyes then turned away to the window. “Then what will we do?”
Jinx took a quick breath, cast a look at Amelia, now striking a long match into her fireplace. She cut her voice low as she said, “I’ll marry him.”
Her mother rounded, stared at her. “But you haven’t even yet been presented to society.”
Jinx found her feet. “But you can admit it would be a perfect match. He and I share so many…interests. And you know I finished school with high praise from Mrs. Greenly. I can manage society and the balls, and the dinners—and you could teach me, Mother. I’m ready. I’ve been ready for two years.”
“Indeed.” Phoebe stepped up to her, lifted Jinx’s chin to meet her eyes. “But are you ready for marriage? For—for the challenges, the…indecencies?”
Oh. Her mother raised an eyebrow.
She remembered Foster’s hands on her waist when he’d helped her from the car, the thrill that went right through to her bones when he touched her face. “Yes.”
Her mother considered her a moment longer. “Perhaps you are.”
Jinx inhaled her Mother’s words, let them sink through her, turn her body to light. Perhaps you are.
“But what if Foster doesn’t agree?”
Jinx couldn’t help herself. “I believe he’ll agree, Mother.”
Phoebe gave her a sharp look. Outside, lightning crackled against the pane. “Really. Well, what about Esme?”
A darkness fell through Jinx. She stepped away from her mother’s grip, ran her hands up her bare, chilled arms. Thankfully, Amelia had lit the fire, but the immense room gathered the heat at the ceiling, warmed her toes last.
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